


A Lesson in Patience

by avawtsn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Fingerfucking, Inexperienced Sherlock, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, New Relationship, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Premature Ejaculation, Topping from the Bottom, Valentine's Day, aborted masturbation, abuse of music tempo jargon, awkward sexting, bit of handporn, bit of yaoi hands, disaster sex, gratuitous inclusion of finger guns and emoticons, self induced orgasm denial, threats and talks of butt plugs without actually using them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/pseuds/avawtsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Valentine's Day, Sherlock can't stop thinking about topping for the first time, and then things go a bit awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Patience

**Author's Note:**

> So, a day or two before Valentine's day, I tagged some text post on tumblr as 'imagine john letting sherlock top for the first time on valentine's day', and then [Bea](http://johnstached.tumblr.com) encouraged me to run with it with further headcanons. One thing tumbled into the next, and I obviously wound up writing the longest porn I've ever attempted.  
> The title, I feel, refers to a lesson that Sherlock and John learn, sure, but I feel most guilty for putting you, poor reader, through the wringer too. And everyone who was following along with little updates on this fic on my [tumblr](http://avawatson.tumblr.com) and twitter. Thank you for sticking with me.  
> Woefully unbetaed, unbritpicked, and only self-edited.

On Thursday night, Sherlock couldn't sleep. Not entirely accurate; he slept for about ninety minutes and flitted about in bed like a restless child for another two and a half hours. John finally kicked him out of bed between 4 and 5 a.m., grumbling about how some people had regular jobs and needed enough rest so as not to prescribe the wrong medications and kill all his patients through medical negligence. 

Well then. 

Sherlock wanted to complain, but the depth of the two creases between John’s brows told him to pick another fight if he wanted any sort of sex in the next twenty four hours. He huffed loudly enough to let John know he was huffing and then shuffled off to spend the rest of the night in the upstairs bedroom. 

The sofa was closer, but the upstairs bed smelled more like John. Even it had been a few weeks since anyone had last slept the whole night there. Burying himself in John’s comforter was nice, almost calming, except that his penis got the wrong idea entirely with John’s scent so strong in his nose. _Pavlovian response_ , Sherlock thought in frustration. In so short a time period, too. Treacherous, unruly physiological reactions. He felt the familiar pang of wishing he were able to turn his transport _off_ when the need arose. Or rather, when _this_ need arose, because it nearly always proved utterly inconvenient. 

He considered his options. John had just kicked him out and was approximately 25 minutes back into his sleep cycle at this point. If Sherlock woke him up now for sex, it would only be a quickie. Mutual handjobs, possibly frottage; penetration unlikely in the hopes of keeping the evening’s plans the same. But John wouldn’t have enough REM sleep for a satisfactory work day. If he wasn’t well rested for work, he’d make mistakes and yell at the nurses and then feel guilty. After work, he’d be tired and guilty and irritable. And if he were tired and guilty and irritable after work, the evening’s plans for romance and Valentine’s day sex would be ruined. 

So no sex now, unless he wanted a quickie and was willing to give up tonight. 

Sherlock wasn’t willing to give up tonight. 

So that was that. 

He pulled the blanket up to his chin in the beginnings of a pout. The fabric dragged over his stiffening cock, however, pulling a gasp out of him. Whatever thought was firing through his synapses froze in transit. 

_John_ , his nerve endings buzzed. Sherlock edged his hand down under the blanket and tentatively took hold of his cock. His erection throbbed with interest. Tightening his hand around the shaft, he squeezed upward to the tip, sliding his foreskin forward and over the head of his cock. He let out a low moan, eyes falling shut of their own accord. 

It had been a while since he’d touched himself. He hadn’t made it a point to do this regularly prior to John and while it felt _good_ , the angle wasn’t quite the same as when John’s dominant, confident hand was on him. He had only a blanket over him, and though it smelled like John, it wasn’t at all John’s solid weight above him, the heat and heft of his torso, his hips pressing hard against him, or his densely muscled, scarred shoulder that Sherlock had taken to lightly holding onto while John pistoned or pumped or stroked. 

Sherlock’s hand was dry and considerably larger than John’s, which was always politely slicked with spit or lube. Sherlock had to move his hand only a little to cover one complete stroke of his cock, while John’s hand had more to go, making his strokes feel _luxurious_ and indulgent and so undeserving it made his insides hurt. Sherlock felt taken care of when John touched him. He felt nothing of the sort when he touched himself. 

He tried a few more passes, tried fanning his fingers around the top of his cock and twisting his wrist a bit to replicate the delicious twirling motion that John got up to around the corona, but it was entirely wrong. He was only frustrating himself, couldn’t see himself actually coming if John weren’t there to cause it, to watch, to lick his lips and press finger-shaped bruises into his hip as he milked him. Sherlock grunted in frustration. 

He considered flipping over on his stomach and fucking himself against John’s pillow, but he dismissed the thought almost as quickly. He wasn’t going to resort to _that_ , even if no one was around to witness it. (He knew better than to think that he’d ever delete the memory of rutting against John’s pillow until he came. He also knew better than to think he’d bother cleaning up the mess before John saw it and pieced together what Sherlock had done.) 

He was properly leaking now, probably leaving stains on the underside of John’s blanket. He thought of John downstairs, awake in a couple more hours, probably with a healthy morning erection, and Sherlock’s mouth watered. What he wanted was downstairs in his own bed, and he was _abstaining_ for a greater reward later that evening. Damn it to _hell_. 

Sherlock flipped over to his side, erection jutting out and resting stiffly against the bed. He thrust his hips just once, smearing a bit of of pre-ejaculate against John’s sheets. He sighed and decided no, definitely not. But he was privately smug that he was leaving his own mark in John’s bed, traces of him in this haven of John. And then he sighed again, this time in frustration, as he thought about the evening and how long a road it was going to be getting there. 

He finally dozed off as London woke up to sing him to sleep. When he woke up again, John was gone. There was cold toast sitting out for him in the kitchen and a text waiting for him on his mobile. 

**Off work at 6:30 today, be home close to 7. We still on for tonight? Vietnamese takeaway and the other thing we talked about?**

Sherlock ignored the text and paced. The other thing. 

He showered, dressed, and put on his camel-coloured dressing gown over his clothes. He checked on his mould experiment, replaced it in the fridge, checked and reorganised his sock index, cleaned out six beakers and three erlenmeyer flasks, and gathered the materials he needed for his next experiment: measuring the rate of decay of human hair in various acids and bases, starting with John’s blondest hairs, then brown hairs, and finally grey ones. With the hairs safely suspended in an array of test tubes with their chemicals carefully recorded, Sherlock checked the time. 

It was 10:15. He was still semi hard in his trousers when he flopped down on the sofa. 

_Transport_ , he thought with disgust. 

By 11:15, Mrs. Hudson had brought him two cups of tea and had made two trips to the shops to fetch the cinnamon biscuits Sherlock wanted. By 11:30, she had brought a third cup of tea and then fled the premises, presumably to visit with Mr. Chatterjee, in the face of Sherlock's explanation that he needed a wide variety of cinnamon products to test out the Valentine themed experiment that cinnamon was an aphrodisiac. 

Finding the flat empty when he tuned back into his surroundings, he sighed in frustration and resumed sulking on the sofa. And if he brushed up against John’s union jack pillow, it certainly wasn’t on purpose. 

At 11:39, Lestrade texted. 

**Double murder in Peckham, will you come?**

Sherlock had never remembered being so happy to receive a case, and certainly never while sporting a semi-erection. 

Disappointingly, by 11:48, Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be leaving the house for this one. Boring case: colchicine dosing by Croatian cook-wife with “wild garlic” from the home country. Purposeful poisoning of abuser-husband, accidental poisoning of bystander daughter who ate half her father’s salad. Solved it without leaving the flat. 

Thankfully, however, Sherlock’s erection had waned while he eked details out of an increasingly frustrated and typo-ridden Lestrade. 

But then at 12:18, by which time Sherlock had solved the case, John texted again. 

**Sherlock, are you still asleep? Did you take a case? Tell me if we’re still on for tonight, before lunch if you could. Trying to plan out my lunch.**

A fresh rush of arousal pulsed through him as he stared at John’s glowing text, thought about John coming home that evening. _Pavlovian response_. Sherlock scowled at his quickening cock and punched out a reply. 

**No case, Lestrade barely got me a six. Evening’s plans are still on if you remain amenable. SH**

John took six long minutes to respond. 

**I do. I’ll see you at 7.**

Sherlock fiddled with the phone in his hand. He stared as his screen went to half glow, touched it again and watched it go to full brightness. He typed out the text before he could think himself out of it. 

**I can’t stop thinking about tonight. About you. SH.**

John’s response was an agonising eleven minutes in coming and impossibly disappointing when it did. 

**Oh?**

But then immediately: 

**Is that why you were so antsy in bed last night?**

**Yes** , Sherlock typed out. 

**That’s actually a bit flattering, I think.**

**Is it? That I’ve built up the idea of me penetrating you for the first time and on this morally bankrupt, commercial, overproduced, emotionally contrived farce of a holiday, to the point of disturbing both our sleeps?**

**Do you realise this is the first time you’ve dropped signing your texts to me?**

Sherlock paused. He had. He hadn’t been thinking. John texted again before he could type out a response. 

**Tell me what you’re thinking about.**

Sherlock’s fingers stopped moving entirely. The phone went half-glow again before another text from John woke it up. 

**Bankrupt, contrived holiday farce aside. I don’t disagree with you. But tell me what you’re thinking about. What you want to do with me.**

Sherlock typed slowly, fingers moving like treacle, thoughts glacial. John wanted to _sext_. 

**I'll tell you what I'm thinking about.**

Sherlock quickly deleted what he was typing (what was he typing?), flushing hot over his face, and stared at his phone, waiting for the next text. 

**I haven't bottomed in years. It's not usually my area.**

Sherlock reached down to his straining cock and dragged his fingers over it from the outside of his trousers. He imagined it was John, the tips of John's fingers on him, John's dilating pupils watching him. 

**I can't stop thinking about you taking me tonight. It’s distracting me from my patients.**

Sherlock's trousers were undone so quickly, he felt a rush of cool air on his cock when it struggled to get free of his pants. 

**I'll be tight for you, like you were for me on New Year's Eve.**

Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his cock without so much as a second thought and he tugged his foreskin forward with an audible moan. He was leaking pre-ejaculate already. 

**Have you thought about how you want me? On my hands and knees?**

Sherlock held the mobile in his dominant hand and stroked his cock with the other. It was just uncoordinated and a bit too rough and just disconcerting enough to make it feel right, a bit like John's early attempts at bringing him off. He found himself panting a bit, only too aware he was wanking on the sofa of 221B, completely dressed except for his exposed cock. 

**Or do you want me facing you, underneath you, so I can look up at you when you do it?**

Sherlock grunted, stilling and squeezing the base of his cock for fear of jacking off uncontrollably until he came with a shout to bring home Mrs. Hudson. 

**I like that look on you myself. I like seeing it, that moment, you know the one. Watching your eyes fall half closed like you can't help it.**

A whimper escaped his throat and he almost dropped the phone to clasp his hand over his mouth. He kept his hand wrapped around the base of his cock and felt the cold drip of pre-come splashing onto his abdomen. He squirmed on the couch, feeling altogether too hot for his dressing gown and button-down shirt and tight bespoke trousers. 

**You realise if you're trying to imagine the same look on me, you probably don't have the exact face anywhere in that mind palace of yours. Because you've never had me that way before.**

Sherlock held back a gasp and let go of his cock completely. It bobbed and dripped more pre-come onto the fine hairs of his lower stomach. When his phone chimed again, he felt glazed over and pliant as his eyes snapped back to the screen. 

**Maybe you'd like me riding you, straddling your lap and lowering myself down onto you.**

Sherlock regretted ever touching his cock, given the state of his arousal and the light sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. 

**Maybe you'd like it if I took charge this first time, used your body til I had my fill.**

He gritted his teeth, sinking into the thought John had painted for him. He thought of John laid out before him, sated and heavy lidded, and he thought of finishing himself off intracrurally, using John's slick come to lubricate that tight space between his thighs. _That_ , he didn't need to resort to imagination, he simply brought up the night of January 6, filed away in a special room of his mind palace. 

**Sherlock?**

Sherlock snapped his attention back to the phone. He wiped his left hand onto the dressing gown and texted back. 

**Sorry, I have been reading your texts. Been too distracted to respond.**

John took nearly two minutes to reply. 

**Oh right. Sorry to distract you from your experiments then.**

Sherlock blinked. Did John think that _he_ was distracting Sherlock away from _something else_? The sheer irony of the situation sent waves of incredulity over him. Surely John wasn’t _that_ ignorant? Fingers flew to the mobile. 

**No, don’t misunderstand. Your texts were distracting me.**

Sherlock frowned, frustrated. No response from John yet. He tried again. 

**Your texts. Were distracting. Me.**

Sherlock didn’t know how to put it into words. 

**??**

John apparently didn’t know what to do with Sherlock’s words either. 

Sherlock kicked off the sofa and sat up finally, cock bobbing stupidly, and he texted back. John wasn’t the brightest, but he had to _know_ , didn’t he? 

**I was wanking. I wasn’t responding because I was wanking off to your texts.**

Flushing all over again, Sherlock finally threw off his dressing gown and undid the rest of his clothes. The cool air was welcome on his skin, but most of his energies were focussed on the screen before him. 

**I see.**

Sherlock chewed his lip in exasperation. 

**I didn’t finish.**

**You didn’t?**

Sherlock scowled. 

**You know I hate to repeat myself.**

**It’s just surprising, that’s all.**

**Surprising? Why?**

**You’re a bundle of self indulgence and asceticism. It’s interesting to know where the boundaries lie at any given time.**

Sherlock sat back on the sofa and huffed. In _deed_. 

**I’m surprised you even know how to spell asceticism, John.**

He couldn’t help himself, punching in letters with as much petulant acerbity as he could manage. 

**Wonders of autocorrect on the phone, love.**

“Yoohoo! Sherlock, I’m ba--” Mrs. Hudson stopped as she stepped through the door, took one look at Sherlock and dissolved into high pitched noise. 

“Oh my word, Sherlock, in the middle of the _day_ and -- I’m just going to leave these here,” she said in a rush, tossing two plastic Tesco bags onto the floor by the door. Only her hand was visible from where she was apparently standing in the foyer. “I’m going to stay downstairs and take my herbal soothers early this evening, Sherlock, you just -- you just try to stay quiet up here,” she scolded, still from out of view. “And have a good Valentine’s day with John,” she added before fleeing down the seventeen steps to 221A. 

He looked down, realising the reason for Mrs. Hudson’s descent into prattle. He was completely naked and still hard. 

His phone chimed again. 

**I have to get back to patients now, that was my lunch break. But I’ll see you tonight at 7. I’m definitely amenable.**

Sherlock looked at the time on his glowing phone. It was just 1 p.m. He glanced at his erection, bobbing uselessly between his legs. He ran his fingers through his hair and groaned. It was going to be a long, long day. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson did not come up. Instead, Sherlock took two more showers, nearly giving himself hypothermia in the process, and then dressed again -- blue dressing gown this time, plus slightly more breathable underwear -- and set upon a deeply unlucky pig carcass for a round of experiments he had put off for fear of Mrs. Hudson walking in on him. That wasn’t likely to happen _twice_ in one day, may as well take advantage. 

Plus, the pungent smell of formaldehyde was a decent enough distraction from thoughts of John laid out before him, mouth half open, begging for Sherlock to just insert his finger between his lips and -- 

Sherlock dropped his pipettor. It fell with a thud and rolled away under the fridge as Sherlock stared after it. He checked his watch. Barely half five. 

He surveyed 221B. Kitchen table. Sofa. Chairs. Bed, obviously. Floor, with enough padding, perhaps the Belstaff or a quilt. He considered outside 221B. The foyer. The stairs. Oh, that piqued his interest. He looked down at the conspicuous bulge in his bespoke trousers and reconsidered the train of thought. 

Sherlock changed the sheets, laid out six different lubricants by the bedside table, organised by volume of lube left in the bottles and then reorganised by personal preference. He made a mental note that the order of _his_ preference may not at all be the order of John’s preference. He tucked away the long-disused box of condoms into the drawer of the nightstand and continued tidying. Looking around, he moved seven distinct piles of papers into four less distinct piles of papers and let out a long, noisy exhale. 

He checked his messages. One from Lestrade. 

**Good luck tonight!**

Attached was a yellow emoticon wearing black sunglasses and pointing finger guns to the right. 

Sherlock growled and threw his phone at the sofa, where it wedged between cushions. He was going to be absolutely monstrous the next time he saw Lestrade. _Emoticons._

Half six. 

He paced. He relaced his Yves Saint Laurent shoes, checked on his sock index again, and disassembled a clock. He considered another cold shower. 

6:45. 

Fifteen more minutes. He ran his fingers through his hair and was about to go to the loo just to fix his curls when the downstairs door opened and John’s footsteps came up the steps. Sherlock stood frozen in the center of the living room as John stepped into the flat. He glanced at the time. 

6:46. 

“You’re early,” Sherlock spat out. 

“Yeah. Yep,” John said, pausing in the doorway with his coat. “They let me go just a few minutes early, knew I had Valentine’s day plans and -- are you okay? You --” 

Sherlock swooped forward, able to move at last, and took John’s face in his hands, pressing an inelegant, bruising, if dry, kiss to his lips. Sherlock stepped enough into him that John buried his hands at Sherlock’s waist to regain some balance, dropping his coat at their feet. 

“Hey,” John said with a chuckle, moving back just enough to take a better look. “I missed you too, okay?” He let his hands stay at Sherlock’s waist. He tried to pull Sherlock closer to him but Sherlock’s hips stuttered in rejection. 

Sherlock felt himself blushing as John’s eyebrow rose ever higher. “Is that -- are you --” 

John gestured vaguely to Sherlock’s bespoke bulge hovering close to and not nearly pressing against John’s stomach. 

“I never finished,” Sherlock heard himself saying. “Earlier. And this morning. I never. You weren’t here and I didn’t. You weren’t here and I --” 

John pressed a kiss to his lips, soft this time, and wetter. Sherlock melted against it, grateful. John’s tongue licked open his mouth with practised ease and suckled Sherlock’s lower lip between his. 

This time, Sherlock couldn’t help but press himself against John, and he moaned from some illegally heady mixture of sensations at his groin and on his lips. 

“Shall we order in food later then? I think you have some other things in mind first,” John said, not even close to repressing the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Before Sherlock could come up with a response, John leaned up and whispered into the curls at Sherlock’s temple, “I’ve been thinking of you all day myself.” 

Sherlock’s brain faltered. His blood felt confused, trying to heat his face and feed his cock at the same time, and every garbled thought of John spread out under him vying to leave his throat at once. 

John smiled a predatory, dangerous sliver of a smile and leaned in again, nipping lightly at Sherlock’s earlobe. “I very nearly took the extra time I had getting home to buy a plug to bring back to you, but I thought,” John mouthed the fleshy lobe, pulling it gently until Sherlock whimpered, “you’d probably appreciate having that to look forward to for another time.” 

Garbled thoughts be damned. Sherlock backed up John into the front door of the flat and flattened him against it with a satisfying grunt. He growled as he curved his spine to get his mouth onto John’s neck, pulling the collar of his gingham button-down to the side for access. 

“I’m not,” Sherlock said between sucking love bites into John’s skin, “good with” -- John let out a delicious moan and his hand snaked up Sherlock’s backside -- “waiting” -- John squeezed, grabbing up as much arse as could fit into his hand, sending Sherlock pushing his erection directly into the jut of John’s hip -- “for what I want,” he finished, panting, mouth greedy for John’s skin. 

John smiled like he were tipsy, completely comfortable being pinned against the door. “So why didn’t you finish even once today?” 

Sherlock paused, pulling back. He scanned his face for tells, but John truly didn’t know. “Because you weren’t here, obviously.” 

John’s face softened. “And you call me the romantic.” 

Sherlock might have rolled his eyes if given an extra millisecond of thought. As it was, John slipped out from Sherlock’s grasp and headed to the bedroom, undoing shirt buttons as he went. 

“Come on then, romantic,” he called out behind him. 

Sherlock followed a beat later, heat coiling in his chest, anticipation crackling to his fingertips. 

Inside the bedroom, John had divested himself of shirt and trousers and was down to boxers and vest. Military efficiency, that one. Sherlock felt distinctly overdressed for the occasion in his tartan dressing gown (since the afternoon's pig carcass mishap), shirt, and trousers, and he felt uncharacteristically uncoordinated as he tried to strip down and join John in bed. It wasn’t easy, and he found himself watching John pull off the vest and underwear before he even got started on his blasted shirt buttons. 

John was surveying the tidied up nightstand and the array of lubricants at his disposal, a small secret smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He chose the bottle second from the left (noted for filing in the mind palace later) and squeezed out a dollop of gel onto his left hand. Sherlock was still disrobing from his trousers (hand caught in belt, and _why was he wearing a belt_?) and nearly tripped on his own two feet when John’s left hand reached down to touch himself. 

Sitting back against Sherlock’s headboard, John let his legs fall open. His cock, thick and heavy and calling Sherlock’s gaze like magnetic north, sat completely untouched between his legs. Instead, John’s left hand, fingers slick with lube, appeared on the the underside of his arse, reaching for his hole. 

Sherlock gaped. Knew it, couldn’t rein it in in time. 

“Sh-shouldn’t I be the one, I mean, not that I want you to stop, but --” 

“Then finish undressing and take over,” John interrupted, all lightness and sweetness. His mouth started to curve into a smile but then fell open instead as his middle finger homed in and slipped inside him. 

Sherlock unfroze, suddenly scrambling, and shook off his trousers, peeling his pants along with them. Once undressed, he practically dove for the bed, his own cock hitting the duvet and sending reverberations down his spine. Sherlock looked down and John was slipping his middle finger in and out in a hypnotic largo tempo, soft moans escaping him with the effort, with the deepest thrusts putting him in just past the second knuckle. But the angle was a bit wrong for going all the way in to the hilt. 

“Here,” Sherlock swallowed. “Let me. I should.” 

John’s body uncoiled a bit when he removed his hand. A man with scarred shoulders and pushing 40 wasn’t meant to be contorted in certain ways. Sherlock found himself staring at the pucker as it closed up after John’s fingers left it. 

“Then get to it, love. I thought you said you were impatient to get started,” John said gently, snapping Sherlock’s attention back to his face. Sherlock moved over the bed, positioning himself between John’s legs, and took a generous dollop of gel from John’s preferred bottle. 

“You have no idea,” Sherlock breathed as he warmed up the gel on his fingers, something he’d watched John do innumerable (twenty eight) times before. 

He skated the pads of his fingertips over John’s hole, sending a violent shiver through the other man’s body. 

“Ahh -- light,” John said, voice notched up an octave. A visible tremor made its way through his body like the aftershock to an earthquake. 

Sherlock rolled his thumb over the pucker and rested it there, as solid a touch as he could make it. He distinctly did not like the idea of his touch sending the autonomous signal to John’s brain to raise his hackles. He flushed in embarrassment. 

“Hey, no, it’s okay. You’re entitled to play, it’s just been a long time since anyone’s -- touched me there,” John said, breathing harder than Sherlock at this point. “You can,” and John’s turn to swallow, “Push in. You know. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Your f-f--” 

Sherlock slipped in his index finger, just the tip, up to the first knuckle. John stopped talking, suddenly focussed on breathing through his nose. 

Sherlock slipped in to the next knuckle, and John failed to repress the small cry that escaped him. Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to find his. “Are -- are you okay?” 

John nodded instead of answering aloud. He bore down a bit on Sherlock’s finger as a further go ahead, and Sherlock steeled himself to continue, trying to remember how this felt for him just a few weeks ago. His head felt altogether too hazy to pull up the scene with appropriate verisimilitude. 

Sherlock pumped his index finger in and out a few times, an experimental, faltering larghetto beat, before pushing in to the hilt, the knuckle of his folded in middle finger coming right up against John’s perineum. This earned a right hiss from John, but his eyes flashed open and he glared down at Sherlock, “Don’t you dare stop. God, that’s -- almost --” 

John groaned in frustration, so Sherlock set about trying to fix it. More, better, he didn’t know what John wanted exactly but he had to try. His mind was frying itself trying to remember what this was like for him those weeks ago while he was also trying to record every detail of the _now_ , of _this_ , of _John_. 

Sherlock removed his finger and applied more lube. John dug the heels of his feet down into the bed. When Sherlock returned to John’s hole, he led with his middle finger. A few shallow pumps to get John used to the motion, and then when he was slipped out nearly the entire length, he tried edging his lubed up forefinger as well. It was nearly twice the girth, and John squirmed as the index finger breached him, even if it was only the first knuckle. 

“ _Oh_ ,” John said, eyes screwed up tight, spine arching. He bore down again, scooting his bum down on the bed so he could properly lay down. Sherlock moved back to accommodate him, still seated between his legs and watching raptly. 

“More,” John instructed, voice hoarse in a way that sent a pulse of want straight through Sherlock’s untouched cock. 

Obliging, Sherlock pushed in his middle and forefingers, forcing both past the outer ring of muscle as John sucked in breaths through his nose. This wasn’t particularly delicate and John didn’t seem to be enjoying it too much just yet, despite orders to forge ahead. Sherlock felt out of his depth, pushing taut, live, blood-hot muscles out of the way in ways that the muscles themselves didn’t particularly want to stretch. Above him, John was visibly calming himself and telling himself to relax, and Sherlock ached with anxiety even as his cock throbbed. This, John, the undeniable intimacy of this, John giving himself over to him, trusting him, wanting him, it was melting him like so much ice on hot pavement. If he’d been forced to say something, he wasn’t sure what would come out of his mouth. 

Sherlock bent his head down and placed a chaste kiss on the top of John’s thigh. While John was supine with just his knees up and feet planted on the bed, Sherlock was doubled half over just to get at this position, weight on his knees, unable to look up at John despite very much wanting to. His curls fell forward and brushed John’s belly, and Sherlock imagined John opening his eyes and looking down, taking in the sight of Sherlock folded over in something between study and worship. 

In another moment, a tentative hand found its way into Sherlock’s locks and Sherlock closed his eyes as he planted soft, dry kisses over John’s skin, the light fur of John’s thighs tickling his nose. His hand never stopped pushing his long two fingers in and out of John, but John seemed to breathe lighter this way. Distracted or getting used to it, possibly both. Sherlock continued his trail of kisses down to the fold of skin between testicles and inner thigh, let his cheek brush up against John’s cock as he did. It was the first either of them had touched John’s erection, and John let out a helpless groan. 

Sherlock wanted more of _that_. 

He found himself making his way up the shaft of John’s cock by touch, letting the heavy glans drag across his cheek and over his lips. He could hear John’s breath stutter above him as he let the pre-come there smear a viscous stain against his lips. He darted his tongue out to lick at the very tip and slipped his tongue into the warm, wet fold under the foreskin and over the glans, around the corona. Sherlock had read that many men tasted bitter, but John was nothing of the kind. He was musky, for sure, but light on the tongue; not so much delicious as _interesting_ and perfect and so quintessentially _John_. If this was what other people felt was bitter, Sherlock pitied them for their extraordinarily poor palettes. 

Sherlock swirled his tongue down to the underside of the glans, slipping under the foreskin smoothly, and broadly lapped at his frenulum, sending John’s cock twitching in response. Sherlock’s two fingers naturally made their way deep inside him in rhythm, and both things happening in concert tore a moan through John that Sherlock felt against his tongue. Sherlock pushed his fingers into John up to the hilt, barely the head of John’s cock suckled between his lips, when John bucked into his mouth with a yell. 

“Oh, _oh_ , Sherlock -- _Je_ sus, Sherlock,” John panted, fingers twisted tightly into his curls. Sherlock moaned around the head of John’s cock the way he always did when John played with his hair. He stilled, pressing up against John’s perineum, and kept his fingers straight and stiff inside John. “There, _there_ , Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, voice aimed up into the room, like he had tilted his head back to speak. “God, your fingers, god they’re long, so -- so much longer than mine, Jesus, that’s perfect, that’s perfect, do -- do that again.” 

Sherlock obliged. His tongue made a broad pass at John’s frenulum as he took in another inch of John’s cock into his mouth while he pumped his two fingers out and then back in to the hilt. Sherlock was breathing harder now, nose full of John’s earthy scent. His own cock throbbed in sympathy when he tasted a fresh hit of John’s pre-come on his tongue. Sherlock registered a nub of some sort with the pad of his middle finger when it was deep inside John. He would have pulled off John’s cock to take his time, examine it further, but John bucked again, fisting Sherlock’s hair tight and reflexively pushing his head down onto John’s cock. John immediately released his hair and was audibly gasping for air above him. 

“S-sorry, fuck, sorry,” John said. 

Sherlock didn’t even respond this time. John replaced his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder instead, which moderately annoyed him. He swallowed down more cock in retaliation (mixed messages, possibly), before John’s hand was suddenly and urgently pulling him off his cock. 

“Nnngh, Christ, Sherlock,” John panted when Sherlock pulled off and glared up at him. “Not -- not unless you want me to come now,” he warned. 

Sherlock scowled anyway. 

“Third finger. Third finger now and then fuck me,” he ordered, catching his breath. 

Sherlock looked down, unsure how his ring finger was going to fit. John was tight around his first two fingers already and breathing hard, face flushed. And Sherlock thought to his own cock and how he hadn’t felt satisfaction in so long, through this entire day, never mind sitting here in his bed with John making drunk noises around his fingers. 

He scissored his two fingers inside John first, trying to loosen the ring of muscle more before adding in a third. John squirmed, a sharp deflating noise escaping him when Sherlock brushed up against that nub again with his index finger. And then with one last withdraw. 

With all three fingers pressed together and freshly lubricated, index and ring fingers touching in front of the middle, Sherlock pushed in, sending John shuddering, gasping. Sherlock looked up to find John red in the face, trying to breathe through it. His erection was obviously and alarmingly wavering. 

Cold panic shot through Sherlock because that could only mean pain. He abruptly and distinctly remembered what that felt like and he nearly recoiled his entire hand except that John fixed him with his Captain glare. 

“Don’t you dare,” he breathed. “Don’t you fucking dare." 

Sherlock withdrew carefully before pushing back in, as slowly as he could manage. John relaxed into it, but he was still impossibly tight around Sherlock’s fingers. Thoughts bouncing around like a pinball, Sherlock tried to remember just how much more girth his cock represented over his three fingers sandwiched together. He suddenly regretted never having been that interested in his own erections before John. 

“Stop,” John said, swallowing. Sherlock froze. “Stop thinking.” 

At what was usually his line, Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off. “No really, you always say how it’s so annoying when you can hear people think. I can hear you think right now. Just stop. Just do this. _Feel_ this. Be with me, here, now.” 

He looked imploring, if slightly wrecked with his high flush and sweaty sheen. Sherlock didn’t find anything else to say. 

Without further protest, Sherlock pumped his three fingers in and out until John reached down and squeezed his shoulder, pulling him up and over John’s body. Sherlock went, obliging, obedient. 

“Are we going to do it this way then?” Sherlock asked, realising too late his voice gave away every feature of his trepidation. He cleared his throat. “After all that talk of...other ways?” 

John grabbed the bottle of lubricant and smeared a more than healthy amount on his palm. Sherlock was pulled up onto all fours, hovering over John and between his legs still. John, in turn, was fully supine and staring up into Sherlock’s eyes as he wrapped his slicked up hand around Sherlock’s cock. The touch was cool and shocking, almost to the point of stinging, but it quickly morphed as John stroked him to full hardness. It’d been so _long_. Sherlock nearly choked on his sharp inhale. 

John’s fingers fanned over the head of his cock, in just that way that he was missing this morning. In a practised motion, John coaxed Sherlock’s foreskin over the head of his cock, leaving Sherlock shuddering for breath and dropping his forehead down to John’s shoulder. 

It was the scratching of every irritating, abominable itch he’d felt all day long, and for a long moment, he felt that John’s hand would be enough, would be all he needed, all thoughts of anything else some kind of distant cream on top of an abstract, amorphous dessert he couldn’t be arsed to remember now. All he needed was John touching him, so much so he looked up and glared when John stopped. 

John chuckled as Sherlock stared daggers. “I thought you had something else in mind,” he said, gesturing vaguely. 

Sherlock growled instead of responding. He shifted his weight to one arm as he took his cock in hand and lined himself up. John’s smirk soon disappeared off his face, focussed instead on lifting his legs to either side and up to give Sherlock better access. John was flexible in this way, especially for a man his age. No scar tissue to hamper his muscles from stretching. His arse was lifted just off the bed, enough for Sherlock to have to just bend at the waist to get the angle. 

Sherlock dragged the glistening head of his cock up the crack of John’s arse until it seemed to naturally slot into John’s body. Sucking in a breath, John looked up at Sherlock and nodded just once. 

As he pushed in, Sherlock studied John’s face the entire way, memorising the symphony of intensite emotion playing on John’s face. Whether it was pain or pleasure he wasn’t entirely sure, but there was no doubt this moment would have an entire room in the mind palace under lock and key, assuming Sherlock survived this. He was going so slowly he didn’t know who was in more agony. 

When Sherlock was fully seated, John exhaled first. Only some of the redness and distress in his face dissipated. Looking down, Sherlock saw John’s erection had flagged again, but John made a _tsch_ sound and frowned up at him. “I said don’t think,” he repeated. “Be with me, here, right now. Don’t leave me here.” 

Sherlock had no words to that, but he nodded. He pulled out and pushed back in, and John took great big heaving breaths again. On the third thrust, John had his breathing under control and brought his hand up to place against Sherlock’s cheek. 

Here, with John. Now. 

Tilting his head into John’s palm, Sherlock rested his elbow to the side of John’s head and pressed his forehead to his before thrusting again from lower down on John’s body. This time, John bodily shuddered, eyes falling shut. More importantly, Sherlock felt John’s cock throb to life against his stomach. 

Largo tempo. Keep this. Eyes open. _John_. 

Sherlock pressed a kiss to ridge of John’s brow and repeated the thrust. When he earned a tortured moan on the push in, Sherlock kept kissing him, lips light, barely brushing against John’s fevered skin. 

Larghetto. 

“More, Sherlock, I can take it,” John grunted. One hand snaked to Sherlock’s back, fingertips digging in, while the one at his cheek buried itself in the curls at Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock lifted his head to look at John and nodded. He picked up speed. 

Adagio, andante. 

John’s mouth fell open and slack as his eyes screwed shut. It was mesmerising in its own way and Sherlock drank his fill. A sweet tension returned to John’s brows as his breaths turned into little wanton grunts that lit the very tips of Sherlock’s ears on fire. 

Moderato. 

Sherlock wanted to commit every detail to memory, but found himself thrusting without much ability to think after all. John was still tight around him, still beyond anything he’d experienced up til now, equal parts heat and tightness, everything screaming _here_ and _John_. 

Part of him worried that it was painful, that he was doing it wrong, but John’s erection pushing into his stomach shoved that fear away and out of reach, if not out of sight. Feeling it there, hard and undeniable; hearing John grunt out his breaths as Sherlock worked at thrusting into him; the fingertips grinding into his back, grounding him here, tethering him to John. He could nearly feel his higher faculties leaving him, burning up in atmosphere. And he couldn’t be arsed to care. 

Allegro. 

Sherlock almost couldn’t breathe, had no more room to think. Every nerve ending was singing, on the cusp of fire. Too late, he realised what that meant. 

His orgasm overtook him so quickly, he was almost unprepared for that last thrust to be the one he held deep inside John as he pulsed and stayed and felt like sobbing. His eyes flew open in alarm as the first waves subsided, searching out John, who hadn’t left, obviously hadn’t left. Sherlock had never felt like apologising more -- he was Sherlock Holmes -- and now that he did, he didn’t know how to start. 

“That was,” Sherlock started, out of breath. Alarmed now, devastated, to find John’s cock still hard between them. “You’re still. You haven’t. I was too eager. That was, what, three minutes?” Sherlock swallowed, rewinding frantically as he realised the estimate was entirely on the nose. “Shit. My god. John, I’m sorry, I --” 

“Shut up.” John brought his finger to Sherlock’s lips to drive home the order. It stopped Sherlock from talking but didn’t stop him from feeling bright panic rippling through him, especially as he softened inside John. John, with his cock still jutting stiffly into Sherlock’s abdomen. 

“That wasn’t --” Sherlock started again. 

“Shut _up_ , you’re thinking again,” John interrupted. 

Sherlock swallowed. He kept his mouth shut. 

“Up. Off,” John said, and Sherlock slipped out unceremoniously, cheeks and ears burning. Sherlock’s vision seemed to blur, eyes unfocussing as he sat back on his feet. He was an exposed nerve, a live wire. Afterglow dissipated in shame. 

“Hey, hey. No,” John said softly, reaching out to Sherlock’s chin to tilt his gaze back at him. “Sorry, love. I meant. You were good all day. Patient. You wanted this all day and so did I. So I thought -- you could get off me so you could finger me.” Sherlock looked at him. John’s mouth was serious, but his eyes were soft. “And when you’re ready, fuck me again.” 

Sherlock blinked. 

John leaned back, propped up on his elbows. He let his knees fall to either side, which drew Sherlock's gaze lower, between his legs. When erect, John's cock had a beautiful but slight curve to it, as now, when it hovered tantalisingly over John's lower abdomen. After New Year's Eve and before his birthday, Sherlock had calculated the precise curve of it, the actual mathematical formula he could plot on a graph. There were variables he could adjust to account for how aroused John was, and he was tipping toward superlative now. A drop of semi-viscous pre-come fell in cinematic slow motion from the tip, leaving a thin tail for a moment before pooling on John's skin. 

Sherlock shook himself free of the thought. Gods but he'd changed. Sherlock allowed himself a small, wavering smirk. 

John's lips quirked up. "Something funny about my raging erection?" 

Sherlock leaned down again and mouthed over the spilled drop of pre-come and the surrounding flesh, one hand wrapping itself around John's shaft at the base. John inhaled sharply. "Not at all," Sherlock murmured into John's skin. He felt an errant curl of hair fall forward and brush against John's cock. It sparked a surprisingly gratifying full-body shiver in John that Sherlock savoured down to his bones. 

Slowly, Sherlock brought his still slicked up hand back to John's hole. He let his fingers play around the tender pucker of flesh, tracing, teasing. It felt different now that Sherlock had loosened him up. It took just the slightest press of his finger before the muscle gave way, welcoming him back in, and when Sherlock pushed in, John swallowed down a moan, low and hungry. Inside, John was softer, still slick with lubricant and -- Sherlock swallowed at the thought -- Sherlock's come. He stroked carefully up John's cock, easing the foreskin forward and then back to expose more of the head. With his non-dominant hand, the angle was strange, the movement slightly stilted. 

John gasped anyway. 

John was obscene heat and mouthwatering wetness, and somehow getting slicker as he moved just slightly around Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock pumped two fingers in and out and watched, feeling flush, John's pucker give way, flesh molding around Sherlock's middle finger like a plush velvet mouth. Underneath John's increasingly noisy panting, Sherlock could hear the wet squish of his repeated breach. He was so entranced, he barely paid attention to the hand on John's cock until John's hand reached out and stilled it. 

"Nngh, Sherlock," John said between breaths. "You'll make me come." 

Sherlock looked. John's cock was a midtone dusky red, more angrily tinged as the blood seemed to pool at the head of it. His bollocks were drawn up and there was a faint tremor in his abdomen. 

"Hardly a side effect I'm trying to av--" Sherlock started. 

"I don't want to come," John cut him off. "Not yet. I want you in me again. Sherlock, I," John bit his lip when Sherlock readjusted his fingers inside John's arse. "I want this. Want you to have the whole experience. We talked about all those positions. I want that. I can be patient too." He rushed to add, "If you want." 

Sherlock kept himself from sputtering too much as he replied, "Of course I want." 

"Well then." 

John pulled him up by his biceps and nibbled at his lower lip. To balance himself over John, Sherlock let go of John's cock with one hand but kept his fingers inside him with the other. 

"You're going to fuck me and I want to feel like it for a week," John said into Sherlock's slack mouth. "I want to feel it the next time I fuck you," he said, voice nothing but a low, dark hiss. "You're going to think about that the next time I'm in you.” 

It was John with long fingers up his arse but it was Sherlock who felt flayed open and flushed hot to the point of vertigo. 

"Come on, love," John whispered. He gently coaxed Sherlock's bottom lip between his and _bit_. Sherlock groaned, helpless. Instinctively, he pressed his fingers deeper into John, pushing his fist up against his perineum. John hummed around the lip trapped between his teeth. "You were so good today, waiting for me. I felt just how good you were," he praised. "Let me be good to you." 

Sherlock's cock was already begging to come back to life. Every dirty image John laid out for him, every whispered syllable indelibly burning itself into Sherlock's brain; John knew what he was doing and he was effective at it. 

Sherlock drew back, shifting his weight back onto his feet. John remained laid back on the bed. Surveying the admixture of semen and lube dribbling down his fingers, Sherlock removed his two fingers and pistoned back in three. John huffed out a breath through his nose. 

"You can't come from prostate stimulation alone, correct?" Sherlock ventured. John wasn't a natural or frequent bottom, but better to check. 

"That's correct." 

"Good to know," Sherlock said quietly, almost to himself. 

Before long, Sherlock had found the nub again. It was rather obvious from the way John arched his back and fisted the bed sheets with nearly involuntary force. Such a small collection of nerves, the lightest graze wrecking this very in-control man. 

"On your hands and knees," Sherlock said, voice remarkably even. 

John caught his breath, swung one leg over Sherlock's hand and lifted himself up on all fours. Sherlock's eyebrow shot up in appreciation; it was a smooth but difficult move. Sherlock's fingers didn't even slip out as John made his way to his knees. Even so, he removed his fingers once John was firmly in position. 

"Need more lube," Sherlock said by way of explanation when John started to look back. 

When Sherlock came back to John's waiting arse, he stopped to appreciate the fleshy curve of it. This was John, the muscle and sinew and bones of him, shaped like him, with dark blonde fuzz that gave him a perpetually tan sort of look. All offered up to him, just him. And it felt different this time and somehow less daunting than when he was contemplating the stiff ring of muscle up close, with little of _John_ in his vision. Or maybe it was just that he had pair bonding hormones muddling his mind, but he was abruptly more optimistic about the evening. 

"Talk to me," Sherlock said. 

"And say wh _aat_?" John's voice hitched as Sherlock slid three fingers back in him. 

"Tell me," Sherlock said, pistoning his fingers in and out slowly, largo, larghetto. "Tell me what you've told me all day. What I should be thinking about." 

Sherlock paused his fingering, letting another obscene, wet noise fill the air. 

John stilled, listening. 

"Are you --" he started. 

"Yes." It was Sherlock's turn to interrupt. "Another thing I've been doing an alarming amount of today." 

He held the base of his cock tight in his left hand and squeezed it slowly up to the tip. The whole of his left hand, palm to fingers, was lubed up, so the slide was sinfully smooth. And then he switched to a much faster tempo, moderato, allegro, for a few strokes, before slowing down again. It was the allegro that provided the wet _schlick_ noises that had prompted John's question. 

"But that's what you do to me," Sherlock said. 

John hadn't said anything so Sherlock circled his middle finger in a delicate swirl over John's prostate. He scissored his fingers inside John and repeated the circular motion. "Come on," Sherlock said. "Don't make me repeat myself." 

John _whimpered_. 

"I," John began. His voice wavered, spilling out into the room. "I think you should think about taking me again with -- with a plug in your own arse. Next time." John heaved a breath as Sherlock slipped his fingers out and lined himself up. "You should think about -- tomorrow, when I take you and am feeling sore from now. And the n-next day, when you're still feeling it and I take you an-anyway because you like it a little s-sore." John grunted as Sherlock pushed in one smooth slide. 

God but John was more responsive now, likely teetering on oversensitivity. When Sherlock pumped his hips, John moaned like he’d forgotten about volume and self-consciousness and control. His dropped his head, let himself lean onto his elbows. Hands nowhere near his cock. A nearly penitent pose that practically compelled Sherlock to snap his hips faster, a bit brutally, as he drank in the sight. 

Before long, John sounded like he was on the edge of sobbing, for all that Sherlock hadn’t lost track of John’s bobbing erection between his legs. 

“God,” John cried into the bed. He couldn’t quite turn around in his position; it would have taken a lot of effort for him to get a good look at Sherlock, would have required Sherlock slowing down or stopping. “Sherlock, let me. Fuck, let me.” And then he tried looking over his shoulder, so Sherlock came to a stop and let John crane to look backward. 

“Switch. Switch positions,” he said, and maybe it was his glazed over eyes, but he seemed fragile in his own way that unfamiliar and at once touching. Sherlock nodded and withdrew, sending a sharp inhale through John. Lube and come fell away from John’s arse and onto the bed. 

John looked like he was taking a moment, so Sherlock gathered pillows to him and sat back against the headboard. John crawled over to him, nodding to a question that wasn’t voiced, and sat in his lap. Both their erections bobbed unattended between them. 

“Just give me,” John said. “Just give me a moment. I’m. I need to calm down a bit.” 

Sherlock waited. He looked down and watched his cock spread glistening wetness over John’s stomach as they breathed out the wait. When he thought perhaps he should grab more lube, John moved forward all of a sudden, lined up before Sherlock could get a handle on what was happening, and sank down onto him. 

“Fuck,” Sherlock gritted out, the curse pulled from his lips. 

John grinned but was moving with purpose now. “Let you in on a secret. I’ve always _loved_ when you curse.” 

He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “You do?” 

“Surprised you never deduced it before,” John said, moving faster, breath already ragged again. “You would’ve used it against me by now if you had.” 

Sherlock couldn’t so much respond as hang on, fingers cupping John around his iliac crest. John bounced in Sherlock’s lap, clearly caring less and less about what that may look like. His lower jaw was slack while tension remained in his upper lip, and god if Sherlock’s mind palace was threatening to flood with sensory overload. 

“I’ve missed this,” John choked out. “God, you’ve made me miss this. I want you to miss this when we’re done. Tell me.” 

Sherlock grunted, the words coming unbidden. “I’m going to miss this.” 

“Tell me.” 

“You bouncing on my cock. Me, buried inside you.” 

“Your eyes lit up when I talked about plugs.” 

Sherlock, focussed entirely on keeping his breath even and eyes from rolling back, was surprised his eyes did anything of the sort. “Plugs,” he repeated nonsensically. 

“I have one more thought on plugs.” The corners of John’s mouth turned up in a lazy, wicked smile. 

”What’s -- what’s that?” 

He leaned in, running fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and god if that didn’t feel _gorgeous_ while John ground himself down onto Sherlock. Lips to Sherlock’s earlobe. “I’ll go to work. Like today. I’ll text you. I’ll tease. I’ll come home.” John’s sentences clipped as he huffed breaths between them. “You’ll undress me and find I was wearing one all day.” 

Sherlock whimpered, half drowned out by John's hot breaths in his ear. The bouncing picked up pace, a maddening, driving allegro. “And god help anyone who’s going to stop me from fucking myself on your cock like this.” 

The core of him was going to superheat. The grip on John’s hips, the rasp of John in his ears, the only thing keeping him on this earth. 

And then John was gripping his own cock, fingers wrapped tight around him at the very base. His eyes flashed as he spoke. “Tell me to come.” 

“Oh god, John. _John_ , come, yes, please. Come. Please, come.” Every word he breathed sounded shattered. 

John’s hand moved rapidly, all purpose and zero grace. And then he stilled nearly completely, body and hand at once, and Sherlock glimpsed such a look of relief on his face just as hot, thick stripes of come landed between them. John pulsed for long, held moments, moving lazily, like low ocean waves, eking the last of his orgasm greedily. The last of John’s grinds, knees digging into the pillows behind him, finally pulled a climax from Sherlock that was all dark, silent heat, rolling out from his core in a black wave and overtaking him like drowning. His vision and hearing went, and all he registered was John’s forehead resting on his shoulder as he froze, pulsing weakly. 

When Sherlock came around to his senses again, John's mouth was on his, pulling slow, deep kisses from him. John's breathing hitched at every squirm as Sherlock went soft. 

“I’m,” Sherlock said, blinking. 

One beat. Two. 

“You’re?” 

“I,” he started again and then closed his mouth. “I don’t know where I was going with that.” 

John kissed him softly and thoroughly until his cock slipped out completely. Wetness dribbled down onto his lap, sending John to the loo to clean himself up. He came back with flannels, wet and dry, and cleaned up until Sherlock’s heart rate felt less erratic. 

“I’m meant to be doing this part, I’m fairly certain,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat. 

“Next time,” John said simply. 

He swallowed at the idea of next time. 

“Should I be...taking care of you more?” Sherlock ventured, after John finished with the flannels. He was feeling uncharacteristically unsure of himself. Solicitous. 

“How do you mean?” 

“With you...when it’s the other way, it feels…” Sherlock struggled with the inadequacy of the words. “I feel taken care of. I don’t know if I -- I don’t know how to do the same for you.” 

John was silent for fourteen long heartbeats. And then he leaned down and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, planting a kiss on his brow. 

“I know you’ll bristle when I suggest you’re anything but completely observant but,” he paused, smiling like he was keeping in a giggle. “You just don’t notice all the ways you take care of me. You do them already, you always have. Almost, anyway. Close enough. And everything else...everything else, we’re going to grow into each other over time. Like we always have.” 

Sherlock looked. He kept his blush at bay to really observe. No tells. John’s face was open and...loving. 

“We have all the time in the world to grow into each other,” John continued, and it sounded like a promise. “But. I’ll tell you one thing we can’t afford to put off.” 

With that, he jumped off the bed and was in the doorway, wearing nothing but a smile. 

“Which is?” Sherlock asked, feeling dumb, feeling cautiously but deliriously happy. 

“Vietnamese isn’t open all night. And I’m starving. Dinner?” John’s smile widened into a cheeky grin as he spun around and disappeared down the hall. “I’ll order if you change the sheets!” he yelled from the kitchen. 

Well sod that, Sherlock thought, getting up to find John in the kitchen. No sense in being _overly_ solicitous. There was a whole other bed upstairs that was mostly free of bodily fluids.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you liked this fic, liked certain bits of this fic, it would be lovely if you left a kudos or comment. It's really encouraging for a new writer like me. Especially as I'm at the stage where I upload these things at the point where I just can't stand to look at them anymore. And thanks again for reading.


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